Concrete Angel: A Plea for the Children
by Ceara Ivory
Summary: Life at the Dursley's takes it final toll on Harry. Rated M for child abuse


Concrete Angel: A Plea for the Children

AN: Child abuse is a real issue among us today. Some say that it's really not as bad as it is. They say it's not happening as often and we should let it go. But I say that if even one child is hurt a year due to child abuse, it is too much. So, I am writing this as a plea. A plea to all of you who have seen evidence that some child you know is being hurt, to step up and say something. Even if you are a child yourself, you can make a difference. Tell your parents or a teacher if think a friend of yours is being abused. If you are being abused than please, again, say something. Don't suffer in silence because silence can be deadly in this situation. Don't be afraid, someone will help you. There is a hotline you can call. I'm not sure if it's the same in every state, but here in Ohio it's 241-KIDS. Calls can be made anonymously and someone will help. Please, I beg of you. Don't let them hurt anymore.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or the song Concrete Angel.

Summary: Life at the Dursley's finally take it's toll on Harry in the middle of the summer before his sixth year.

No one could believe it. Not at all. The Boy-Who-Lived was dead, and ironically not by the hands of the Dark Lord Voldemort. No, this was a murder much worse and much harder to cope with.

Only days before, the young wizard had simply been in his relatives' home, hiding in his small room. He was always there now. Not only because he had no desire to enter the world again but because he was locked in. He was afraid, so afraid. How was he going to make it through?

But, he knew also knew that he could never tell anyone. Never. The Wizarding World would never trust him to get rid of Voldemort if he was afraid of a mere muggle. All that he could do was wait. Wait for school to start again, his second to last year. Once school was in, he would be safe. To be honest, he preferred even the Dark Lord to his aunt and uncle. He traced his newest scar, from the glass of window that he'd be thrown out of, a jagged W shaped scar. No, no one could know. This storm would follow him to his grave, he'd decided. He just had no idea how quick that would come.

Arabella Figg had been feeding her cats when she heard shouts coming from across the street, from her neighbor Mr. Dursley. But she figured it was nothing more than a typical family spat. However, she could swear she could hear the screams of the Boy-Who-Lived mixed in. Something was wrong.

None of the Order who had been supposed to watch over the boy, were present that night. They were all dealing with another attack on muggles over in Wales. There was no one there to help him that night.

Arabella Figg resolved to go over the next morning and find out if everything was alright. She had no idea what she would find, because at that moment, Harry Potter was nothing more than a fragile soul caught in the evil scheme of fate. When morning came, it would be too late.

Harry Potter didn't even attempt to fight back. He had long ago given up. He just took the beating, standing hard as a stone. He just couldn't, he couldn't rise above all of this. He could do nothing. But…..at least, in his dreams, he remembered someone loved him. Tonight, he would be going to them.

Uncle Vernon's fists continued to rain down on him before he got bored with that and fetched Dudley's Smelting Stick. He beat him over the head, across the chest, broke his legs at the knees. He was insane, mad, and Harry would pay the price.

Downstairs, Aunt Petunia simply ignored it. The boy deserved it. He was nothing more than a freak and this is what freaks deserved, she reasoned. She just hoped Vernon would clean up any blood, but doubted it.

Harry had long since stopped screaming, his body was numbing, succumbing to the injuries his uncle inflicted. He looked up and, for a moment, he could see Sirius. Had he imagined it? No, only moments later he saw him again. The man was reaching a hand down to him. Smiling, Harry reached up and took it and allowed his godfather to pull him away from the terrible muggle.

The fat Dursley patriarch soon left, not even noticing that his victim was not moving an inch as he bled out from nearly every pore on his body. He was in such a state that he didn't even notice that his nephew was dead.

The wizarding world erupted at the news of the boy's death. People cried and held each other, most in fear now that their savior was gone. No one but a select few truly understood what had killed Harry Potter.

At the funeral, Harry's best friend, Ron Weasley, took turns comforting his girlfriend and his sister as well as taking comfort from them. He was fighting back tears, angry tears, sad tears, tears at the fact that his best friend was dead. Tears at the fact that he had never done anything more to try to save him from those horrid monsters except invite him to stay a week or two before school started.

The Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was beside himself, the twinkle having finally died from his eye. The boy he'd loved as if he were his son or grandson, was dead. Dead because of a choice he had made fifteen years ago, to place the small orphan savior with his muggle relatives believing him to be safe from all harm. How could he have missed it? Why didn't Harry ever tell anyone? If only he had been paying closer attention to Harry's pleas to spend summers at Hogwarts. Now, he was dead, yet another child he had failed.

A lanky stoic man with long greasy hair and billowing robes and a crooked nose stood in the back of the crowd, trying to look impenetrable. He, himself, had recurrently noticed signs of, at the very least neglect. Why, the boy had worn the same robes for five years, never grown out of them. He had always been so thin and short, probably from malnourishment most of his life. But, he, Professor Snape, had always ignored it. It wasn't any of his business, and he surely didn't care about Golden Boy Potter, the son of that arrogant berk, James Potter. And besides, someone else would certainly notice if Potter's home life was less than ideal. After all, Dumbledore never misses a thing, and if something was wrong he'd do something about it. So why should he care? But now…..now…he wasn't sure….

The Potions Master, focused on his grief nearly missed a familiar twinge in his arm. He turned and saw, standing almost fifty feet away, under the shadow of a tree, was the man who had all those years ago saved him from his own abusive parents and secured what he thought would be a firm ally. Voldemort stared directly into Snape's eyes delivering an unspoken message to the man who only nodded.

If there was any muggle that Voldemort hated most of all, it was one who would willingly harm, even kill someone of their own blood, their family, especially children. For he remembered his days at the orphanage. He remembered how, until the day his powers began to service, they would starve him and the other children and flog them for the least little offense. He remembered all too well and that grudge was burned forever in the corridors of his mind. Oh yes, there would be a raid last night, and Snape would help. Child abusers died in the most painful, slowest way if Voldemort knew about it. Not even Death Eaters treated their children in that manner, it was simply unacceptable. No, these people would have to be punished, even it was his worst enemy they'd killed. Eying the open coffin and the frail boy inside one last time, he nodded once more to Snape and turned, and apparated away.

Later that night, Voldemort returned to the gravesite, a tall marble angel model of the young wizard, the only one to truly defeat him with raw power. The only one, besides Dumbledore, to give him a true match. He looked at the stone.

"_Harry Potter The Boy Who Lived_

_July 31st 1980-July 30th 1995"_

"Hmmph, is that all he is to anyone?" He asked to himself. "Just because his mother used an ancient charm to save him? Well…." He pulled out his wand and began to use a spell to carve a more meaningful message. When he stood up the stone now said:

"_Just as a single thriving rose in a deadly bed of thorns, you will not be forgotten"_

And the next morning, when the Dark Mark was seen above the Dursley home on Privet Drive. When both Dursley adults were found dead and the only survivor was a rotund bully of a boy, whimpering and shaking in the cupboard under the stairs, barely fitting inside. Well, let's just say that for once, the Dark Lord was lauded for his actions, for everyone knew that this was fitting punishment for the ones who were supposed to protect the hero of their world.

The war ended, not even a week later, when Voldemort dissolved the Death Eaters. This murder had opened many eyes, even his, especially when he realized that it had only happened because of a murder he committed fifteen years prior. The war was deemed stupid, pointless for nothing was gained by either side, but much was lost. It was time to put it where it and old prejudices where they belonged, in the trash heap.

After watching the Wizarding World finally band together to fix what had been broken so many years ago, a small, too thin angel turned away from his home and flew, flew to the place where he knew for sure he was loved. Into the waiting arms of his parents and godfather, and to of course, play Quidditch with Cedric. He was free, and loved at last.

And so, the prophecy, in a way, did come true. But not in a way that no one expected. Harry, through his death had vanquished the Dark Lord, and only one survived. Harry, through his death at the hands of his abusive uncle, had indeed saved the world he had grown to love so much, the world that had provided him at least, a few years of happiness.

It's just a shame such a death had to happen.

END

AN: I know, that was sad. But the last line is true. It's such a shame that these deaths have to happen. 2500 children are affected by abuse each day. And still we say that it's not as bad as it seems. When will we open our eyes and realize that we're right, it's worse than it seems and it needs to stop. When will we stop saying that it's not our business and do something? How many more children have to die before we get it together?


End file.
